Knut
by Lasrevinu
Summary: Little oneshot, postDoubleCross. G to the S to the R.


Disclaimer: I'm the proud owner of way too many books on the American Revolution. I've got two copies of McCullough's Adams biography. Do you think Les Moonves will trade me his show for my book?

Rating: Lower case "m." Not really, but I like to be careful.

Spoiler: _Double-Cross_, my dears.

Summary: Little one-shot, post-_Double-Cross_. G to the S to the R.

A/N: I'll explain the title at the end of the fic. It's an inside joke. No, it has nothing to do with the currency in Harry Potter, although I wonder if J.K. Rowling would be interested in letting me have a sneak peek of Book Seven in exchange for a copy of the Hamilton biography. I'll even throw in all of my Gordon Wood stuff.

Knut

"A child is always welcome."

Father Frank Berlin had been so sure, so sincere. Grissom wondered if it was the man's faith that led to his certainty, or if it was something else, something innate in Frank Berlin that put the calling of fatherhood above the calling of his profession.

He wish he had asked.

Grissom and Sara always seemed to reach a nonverbal understanding rather quickly, and this was no different. Their time alone together wasn't usually spent in deep discussion about their future. Truth be told, they didn't talk much at all. Sara fired off rounds of questions the first week of their relationship, but quickly learned to back off and let Grissom open up when he felt the need. Hours would pass in virtual silence and then, at the drop of a hat, he'd explode into a monologue, giving her a slice of his life. That was how he viewed it: he was giving her his life, piecemeal. Slowly but surely, he was giving her all of him, signing away ownership until he was hers.

In exchange, she'd hold him while they slept, kiss him for no good reason, and generally accept the fact that she was with a 50-year-old man who didn't know the ropes as well as he should. Their first anniversary went uncelebrated. It was Sara who realized they'd past the one year milestone. She had been leaning against the kitchen counter, peeling potatoes for vegetable soup and chatting about the accidental chainsaw deaths they had just worked, when she remarked about the date.

"Wow, we've been together a year and two weeks," she said, and then chucked a long, curled brown peel into the garbage.

Grissom's pen had paused at the 23 Across box on the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle. "Oh."

Feeling like a failure, when it was time for them to go to bed, he gave her the only gift he could: himself.

* * *

He had been like a leaky faucet since their first time. Every so often, Sara would get drips of insight into Grissom's character. Almost all of these sessions took place on her bed. He would lay down on his spot and watch her going-to-bed ritual: the detangling of her hair, the removal of all jewelry, the donning of the nightgown and robe. Sooner or later, he'd make a comment out of the blue, as if to test the waters. Once she answered encouragingly, he would launch into a long story. She learned details about the life and death of both of his parents, his painfully lonely childhood, and his firm attachment to forensics all in the 12x14 confines of her bedroom. 

Grissom was particularly solemn one afternoon, though Sara didn't push for any explanation. She just went through her daily bedtime ritual, skipping the application of body lotion due to the cut on her hand that came thanks to a wayward potato peeler.

"When I met you," Grissom began, "I think I fell in love instantly."

Her back to him, Sara raised her brows as she placed a bracelet in the jewelry box on her dresser. They had never really broached the subject of their meeting, let alone when their feelings for each other began to surface.

"It was as if someone turned on a switch and there it was: I loved you," he continued. She got into bed next to him, but he kept his gaze on the ceiling. "It had been raining and you were soaked. I remember I wished I had an umbrella with me so I could give it to you. You hadn't even opened your mouth yet, and I wanted…everything. I wanted everything with you."

Grissom went on to describe every subsequent meeting and his ever-deepening feelings for her, all while staring upward. Sara could feel her body grow warm as she relived those moments with him, and her throat tightened at the confirmation that he had loved her all along.

"I can't be with anyone else, Sara. You're all I've got," he told her, finally turning his head to face her. "You're all I want."

She rested a comforting hand on his chest and moved in closer until they shared a pillow. "I haven't killed a bug in nine years." His eyes widened and she smiled softly at him. "It was the third time you came to San Francisco -- you did the bug seminar at Berkeley and then we had hotdogs on a marina and you spent the rest of the night explaining what noble creatures insects are. The next time I saw a bug I just…couldn't do it." Sara smiled widely. " I think that's when I realized I had it really bad."

He pounced, flipping her over on her back and securing her wrists to the bed. "That," he breathed, "was the sexiest thing I've ever heard in my life."

It was the first time they were ever truly playful during sex. Up until that point, they had always seemed to have the struggle of their entire relationship in the back of their minds during any kind of intimacy, so sex was more often than not wish fulfillment, something that had taken so long for them to get to that it was placed on a pedestal. It was always serious business and treated as such.

But she couldn't stop laughing, and he couldn't stop tickling her, and his smile was so wide as he sunk deep into her body that neither realized they had forgotten the condom until it was too late.

The laughter died as quickly as it began, and he pulled away from her suddenly, flopping back on the bed.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, you're ovulating."

* * *

He didn't mean to sounds so callous; he never did. She got up off of the bed and went to the bathroom, presumably to clean herself off. The door closed behind her and Grissom cursed himself silently. He had memorized her cycle, and while he knew most men wanted to know as little as possible about their girlfriend's menstruation, Grissom relished the extra knowledge about her body. He used to try to guess her cycle before they were together, using the information he gathered about her changing moods to try to put a timeframe to it, and was oddly overjoyed to realize that he wasn't more than a day off the mark once they started their relationship. 

What could he say? He majored in biology.

Sara had been adorably embarrassed by his frank interest in her period, but, as their relationship progressed, they found a happy medium. He learned right off the bat not to expect sex on the first day of her period and she learned to accept the barrage of questions about the subject he had stored in his arsenal to be asked on those night when no sex was to be had.

He started out simple. "So…you're pretty regular?"

"Yeah," she had answered slowly, and he could immediately tell she was a little unsure of where this was going. "Thirty day cycle."

Grissom had nodded. "When did you get your period?"

Sara raised her eyebrows. "1984."

"There's always one thing I wanted to know," he began eagerly, finding a comfortable position on his side as he leaned on an elbow, "how do you know it's coming? I mean, are there any signs? Do you just wake up and say, 'Today's the day,' and then get your…supplies? Or do you wait?"

"I…just…well, the date. Like I said, I'm pretty regular. And, you know, well…"

"Well, what?"

"My breasts get kind of…well, they hurt."

"Oh. Hurt how?"

She had blushed. "They get tender. And then I know that my period will come in a couple of days."

He soaked the information in like a sponge. It wasn't just basic biological information, it was basic biological information about his girlfriend. Grissom memorized everything about Sara -- her habits, her likes and dislikes, her vices. In the lab, he found himself gravitating towards her, seeking her out to ask her opinion on anything and everything. He couldn't stay away.

But after his knee-jerk post-coital comment, it didn't seem as if Sara was too keen on letting him trail her like a puppy. They had always been so careful. Birth-control wasn't something they ever discussed out loud, but it was a part of their lovemaking they strictly adhered to. Grissom always wore a condom. It was a given. One or two times he had considered bringing up the subject of the pill but quickly decided against it, fearing she would think him pushy at best or unsatisfied at worst.

She had been in the bathroom a full ten minutes. He was getting nervous. The muscles in his sore back protested as he hoisted himself up off of the bed. _I'm getting old_, he thought as he made his way to the half bath in the hallway to clean himself off. When Grissom returned to the bedroom, Sara was dressed and in bed.

The lights were off.

"You up?"

"Mmm-hmm."

He rooted through the dresser for a pair of pajama bottoms, slipped them on, and then joined her.

* * *

Neither said a thing, and they continued along that path the next day. She was determined not to bring it up, he seemed hell bent on keeping his mouth shut. But Sara did notice a collective change in their behaviors the moment they arrived at the lab -- separately -- the night after their little mishap. Grissom gave everyone a job to do on the field…except for her. She was sent to observe a lie detector test with Brass at the station and then reconstruct a glass mirror in the layout room to determine the height of impact of a bullet -- the least-taxing work, physically, for a CSI. A possibly pregnant CSI. 

She should've been mad. She should've been furious.

But when Brass moved to pour her a mug of steaming hot black coffee -- her favorite -- Sara found herself declining his offer.

Silently, the crime lab's resident nightshift couple began to accommodate what might be. When Grissom got wind a gang of hoodlums were randomly attacking civilians, Sara was restricted to indoor activities: kicking a dummy in the lab, taking pictures at the hospital. She broke an unspoken rule and tended to Greg at the crime scene, but that was a special case, it was daylight, and the area was teeming with police.

The gruesome crucifixion of a Las Vegas songbird had Sara once again working evidence at the lab, relaying all of Catherine's information to Grissom and examining the corpse and her belongings for details to the murder, using a mask to filter out fumes from the chemicals she used -- a first for the CSI. And later, as she was going over the information with Nick and Grissom in the older man's office, Sara kept a careful eye on her boyfriend's reaction to the dead woman's pregnancy.

"Here…is the big thing: Doc Robbins says that Charlotte was about ten weeks pregnant."

He raised his eyebrows and they kept their gazes on each other as Nick droned on about unwilling fathers. They eventually all got up to continue working the case, and when Nick was out of earshot, Grissom leaned towards Sara and whispered, "Meet you for breakfast later? Same place, same time?"

She nodded, giving him a preoccupied smile. "Sure. Sure."

He left to go interview the priest one more time, and though Sara was interested in the outcome of the case, her mind was more focused on Nick's comment about unwilling fathers. Greg bumped into her as she left Grissom's office, asking if the resident entomologist had left for the station. Sara stoically nodded her head and then excused herself to the ladies room where she escaped to the last stall and climbed up on the toilet to open the tiny, dirty, frosted window. After gulping some crisp autumn air, Sara squeezed her eyes shut.

She should've gotten her period yesterday.

* * *

"We only made love once," Father Berlin explained, "but in the wake of that, I found the husband in me, the father in me. I wanted to be those men for her. I always loved her." 

Grissom thought back to the rosary beads in his desk. He had found them on his mother's nightstand when he returned to California to pack up her things. Almost everything went into storage, but he kept the rosaries in his pocket throughout the funeral. The click-click-click of the beads reminded him of his mother, of her busy, anxious hands worrying through the pale yellow strands. For much of her adult life, Margaret Grissom had no husband to discuss decisions with. Every big step she had to take, she took on her own. With the rosary in one hand, she tackled the world with the other. She had wanted her son to have her rosary -- it represented so much more than her faith. The delicate beads now resting in his breast pocket were a reminder of his mother's consistency, of her determination. They were passed down to him as proof of that.

Passed down.

They met at the diner and ordered their usual breakfasts without saying much. Grissom noticed Sara's face looked especially drawn, her skin unusually pale. No mention had been made of a possible pregnancy, although he knew his precautions when it came to her work on the field were not exactly covert. She hadn't said anything to dispute his actions, so he had to wonder if she was settling into the idea of motherhood.

He never pictured Sara as a mother. Sara was a fighter, a scientist, a lover. She could wither him with a look, or make his pulse race with nary a touch. She was so many things to him the moment they met, but mother wasn't one of them. Grissom wasn't so sure his view would change if she did, in fact, become pregnant.

And then he saw her sipping milk.

He spied her at her refrigerator a week earlier, filling up a glass of the Vitamin D-fortified organic milk she usually saved to put in her coffee and something just…changed. Like the switch that had turned on the moment he met her, something clicked inside Grissom, and his Sara suddenly had another added dimension.

The food arrived and she realized she hadn't washed her hands. "Excuse me," she told him, getting up to go to the bathroom. When she saw he laid down his fork, Sara shook her head. "Don't wait for me," she smiled. "Eat."

"Yes, dear."

Grissom got lost in his stack of hotcakes, drizzling the boysenberry syrup until it pooled on the plate. He loved breakfast now. Breakfast meant he'd be going home soon, and going home soon meant he'd be with Sara. He could touch her there, play with her hair, watch her read a magazine. He could be truly naked in his desire of her.

She sat down at their booth and he smiled at her, his first real, wide smile in two weeks. When all Sara could give him was a tight-lipped grimace back, Grissom's smile faded.

"I got my period."

His fork fell out of his loosened grip and clattered on the table. "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Grissom watched her, and noticed she made no move to dig into the plate in front of her. "Are you okay?"

Sara turned her head to look out the dusty window and into the parking lot. She didn't speak for a few minutes, but when she did, it was with a calm, clear voice. "What's going through your mind right now?"

"I…"

"Don't think. Just tell me."

"I was thinking about how much my mother had wanted to be a grandmother." He saw her look down at her lap -- or perhaps she was getting a glimpse at her flat stomach -- and immediately regretted his words. "Sara…"

"Why did you never have kids?"

Grissom furrowed a brow. "Why?"

"You're fifty. You had to at least…think about it at some point," she said quietly.

"Sara, I…" he looked around at the other patrons, all engrossed in their own conversations, and then lowered his voice, "…it never came up…I mean, there was never anyone who…children never seemed feasible…no one stuck," he said plainly. "This relationship -- my relationship with you -- this is it. This is the big one in my life."

She raised her gaze to him, her eyes dewy.

He pressed his lips together, feeling his own eyes grow moist. "Sara…what's going through your mind now?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. I'm just sad."

He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. "Me too."

"It's silly," she said, covering her anguish with a small laugh and wiping a lone tear with the paper napkin by her plate.

Grissom shook his head quickly and reached for his wallet. He put a twenty on the table and held his hand out to Sara, waiting for her to grip it so he could lead her out of the diner. They climbed into his car, but he didn't put the keys in the ignition. "I think…I think you and I need to talk about this. At home."

She sighed. "At home."

They drove to her apartment where he was sure she'd be comfortable, saying little on the ride there. Sara kept her eyes closed the entire way, leaning back against the headrest for support. She needed support right now. Whatever happened, whatever decision they came to together, he knew that, from that moment on, they were family.

THE END

Note: Okay, so, the title? Aiight, I don't know if we're making this a tradition or something, but this is the second year in a row someone I'll call S.B.T. and I have watched the fifth episode of a season of CSI and been like, "Wow, they're doing it and Sara is preggers!" We're probably wrong again, but whatever. Anyway, S.B.T. started calling the Sidle-Grissom pretend fetus "Peanut" and then "Geek Peanut" which was soon morphed into "Geeknut" and, finally, "Knut." So there you have it. This is for S.B.T.


End file.
